Once Lost
by MorphineLips1994
Summary: Alice sees a vision of Jacob at La Push beach telling Bella of the Quileute tales. The vampire secret has been breached, and Edward and the Cullens make the decision that Bella is simply not worth the exposure of their race, and they leave. However, the rainiest town in the continental US would be a sanctuary for any wondering creatures of the night... Full Summary Inside. Mature.
1. Summary and Prologue

**A/N: Hey, folks! As some of you may have noticed, The Mind is not here anymore. Although I already adored the characters, I felt that there are enough Edward/Bella stories out there that this one wouldn't really be missed. I apologise to those few who already had it on their favourites and alerts, and I hope you'll forgive me.**

**Now, I'd been thinking of obscure pairings that I would love to read that have not been really thought or wrote about in depth, so I went for this one. I hope you like this as much as I do.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. The italicized paragraphs are from Stephanie Meyer's 'New Moon'; no copyright infringement is intended.**

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**Summary:**

Alice sees a vision of Jacob Black at La Push beach telling Bella of the old Quileute tales. The vampire secret has been breached, and Edward and remaining Cullens make the decision that Bella is simply not worth the exposure of their race. It doesn't help that Alice sees Bella with crimson eyes, very much a vampire. No, the exposure of their race, and the loss of an innocent life is simply too much blood for the Cullens to have on their hands. So the Cullens leave, every last one, and Bella fades out of all thought to them.

What Alice failed to see is that regardless of their departure, Bella's life would never be the same again. After all, the rainiest town in the continental US would be a sanctuary for wondering creatures of the night . . .

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**Prologue**

**Bella**

_Charlie's fist came down on the table. "That's it, Bella! I'm sending you home!"_

_I looked up from my cereal, which I had been pondering rather than eating, and stared at Charlie in shock. I hadn't been following the conversation—actually, I hadn't been aware we were having a conversation—and I wasn't sure what he meant._

"_I _am_ home," I mumbled, confused._

"_I'm sending you to Renée, to Jacksonville," he clarified._

_Charlie watched with exasperation as I slowly grasped the meaning of his words._

"_What did I do?" I felt my face crumple. It was so unfair. I hadn't missed a day of school or work. My grades were perfect. I never broke curfew—I never went anywhere from which to break curfew in the first place. I only very rarely served leftovers._

_Charlie was scowling._

"_You didn't _do_ anything. That's the problem. You never do anything."_

"_You want me to get into trouble?" I wondered, my eyebrows pulling together in mystification. I made an effort to pay attention. It wasn't easy. I was so used to tuning everything out, my ears felt stopped up._

"_Trouble would be better than this . . . this moping around all the time!"_

_That stung a bit. I had been careful to avoid all forms of moroseness, moping included._

"_I am not moping around."_

"_Wrong word," he grudgingly conceded. "Moping would be better—that would be doing _something_. You're just . . . lifeless, Bella. I think that's the word I want."_

_The accusation struck home. I sighed and tried to put some animation into my response._

"_I'm sorry, Dad." My apology sounded a little flat, even to me. I'd thought I'd been fooling him. Keeping Charlie from suffering was the whole point of all this effort. How depressing to think that the effort had been wasted._

"_I don't want you to apologise."_

_I sighed. "Then tell me what you do want me to do to."_

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**A/N: This was just meant to be a prologue of sorts. I'll be updating soon, I just have a few little bits and bobs to change around.**

**Reviews, Alerts, and Favourites are always appreciated, but it's early days yet.**

**XxX**


	2. Change

**A/N: Hey, folks! I'm stunned to my core about how many hits I've had already, and those of you who had enough faith in this that this story is already on your favourites and alerts list.**

**You make me the happiest girl in the world.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. No copyright infringement is intended.**

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_**Bella**_

_**Tuesday 13****th**** September 2005**_

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Before coming to the town of my birthplace, Forks, Washington, I had made several promises to myself. I had sworn to be the daughter that Charlie, my father, needed so dearly; I wanted to maintain a perfect 4.0 grade average; and perhaps most importantly, I wanted to fade even further in the background than I had when I lived in Phoenix, Arizona, with my mother Renée. This final wish was vital for the serene existence I wanted to lead, and naturally, it was the only wish that was not fulfilled. It seemed that everything that _could_ go wrong _did_, and I, plain ol' Isabella Marie Swan was the remaining sore thumb, tainting the inconspicuous nature of this damned Podunk town. Whatever I did, I simply did not fade away—if anything, it just got worse!

As I lay here, wide-awake for the third consecutive night, in a bed that was too warm for comfort, my brain attempted some basic mathematics, and came to the startling conclusion that today was September thirteenth. It was my eighteenth birthday today—I looked briefly over to my alarm clock in the darkness—it had been my birthday for five hours. A few minutes of intense mental mathematics later, I worked out that I had been alive for six thousand five-hundred and seventy-four and a half days.

A wasted, unwanted life.

I had been a mistake.

A tear in latex.

No matter how much Charlie and Renée had tried to tell me otherwise in my childhood, I still remember the haunted look, the cold truth in their eyes, and the burning lie on their tongue. You see, Renée's interests were described in one word: fleeting. She was merely infatuated with Charlie; she loved the _idea _of being in love; she liked the _idea_ of being married; the _idea_ of having a husband; the _idea_ of having a child to look after. As soon as the novelty wore off and the postpartum depression hit, it marked the end of a happy life between the three of us. I was only a couple of months old when Renée left Forks and Charlie for _sunshine_. Charlie, my dear father, never recovered.

Eventually, sometime between when I was thirteen and fifteen, I overcame the hatred for myself. I suspect it had been when puberty hit with full-force, and there were simply more atrocious and fascinating things going on with my body that I simply did not have the time to dwell on the fact that I shouldn't even have been alive. I forgot. My breasts were growing, I was getting hair in places I would never have thought I would, I started menstruating that when paired with my phobia of blood and anaemia, left me bedridden for days at a time. Renée also introduced me to the sadistic ritual of waxing that I endured teary-eyed for the sake of some mother-daughter bonding even at such a young age. In the whirlwind that my life became, my mother became my best friend, and I forgot that she probably resented every day that I lived, every breath I took, because such was my mother's nature. Her passions were fleeting, but her _grudges_ . . . they lasted a lifetime and were unforgotten.

Charlie had been awake for some time, and after a ritualistic single two-second long ring of the doorbell to announce his departure and wake me up for school, he left for the Police station. Charlie was the Chief of Police in Forks, which also contributed to my inability of fading into the background: 'Wait, is Bella around? She might tell her dad that we're smoking pot', and so on and so forth. Today, I would tackle this problem once and for all; I, Bella Swan, was going to smoke a cigarette in full view of the majority of the student body before the morning bell—only then, would the paranoia of Forks High fade away. I had weighed the risks, realising that it would make me the talk of the town for weeks, but it would be for the greater good. I think.

This taking up of smoking was also partly due to a conversation Charlie and I had yesterday morning. He had threatened to send me back to Phoenix to live with my mother. I had come to Forks to get away from her and her new husband Phil, and from the thunderous sound of their moans during all times of the day. I tried as hard as I could, not to think about the reasons for Charlie wanting me to send me to Phoenix in fear of the burst of anxiety or hyperventilation. All I could divulge just now was that coming to Forks may have been one of the worst decisions I would ever make. But I digress; hopefully me taking up smoking would indicate to Charlie that I was most certainly not 'lifeless' as he had called me.

I got out of bed, and began my morning ritual: the plucking of ivory lace undergarments, the retrieval of my bathroom bag that lay strewn amongst a damp towel from my shower six hours ago, and the necessary scrubbing of a face that hadn't seen sleep for many nights to fake alertness. Out of carelessness, and a recent spark of exhibitionism since moving to Forks, I walked around the empty house in the scraps of lace, feigning virginal innocence and sexual experience simultaneously—lying to myself and whoever managed to peer inside. It was the most basic and twisted fantasy, one that was far too inappropriate if you knew just how dark I ran inside, or how I had once lured men wearing far more than this . . .

I doubled over the kitchen sink, heaving, my body trying to purge the contents of my stomach as punishment for thinking of the vile events of that night. But my stomach was empty. Bile dribbled from my lips, and I fingered the deep scare at my hip where _they_ had cut away the cotton straps of innocence . . . I heaved once more, my brain screaming at me to stop thinking.

_Stop! Stop thinking about it, Bella. You can't keep doing this to yourself._

I rinsed out my mouth, and wiped the tears from my eyes.

"God help me . . .," I begged pointlessly. God hadn't been there to save me when _they _had stole all that I held dear, all that was truly, and innately mine; I don't know why I still believed in this last fairy-tale—perhaps, _this_ was what I had left now, this and the pretences.

I heaved once more.

* * *

I pulled up to Forks High School, the cesspool of civilisation, with a packet of Marlboro Lights in the pocket of my leather jacket along with a novelty Jack Daniels lighter I had found in one of the kitchen draws at home—if I was going to do this, it was not going to be done halfway.

I swung my leg over the motorcycle, and kicked out the stand. Taking off the helmet.

No, I was definitely not doing things halfway.

The motorcycle had been an early birthday present of sorts from my quasi-friend Jacob Black. He had brought it cheep, a hunk of metal when he had first found it, but he'd spent the summer nursing it back to good health, and took the rusty red Chevy off my hands . . . The truck held too many memories.

Jacob and I had bonded over the rebuilding of this motorcycle through the summer. Although, I knew Jacob's sudden interest of striking up a friendship with me was mainly due to the fact that Charlie and Jacob's father Billy were best friends, and after what happened, Billy had thrust Jacob forward as if I was a charity case. With gritted teeth, a constant gap of two feet, and a no-touch policy between us at all times, we became friends of sorts. I say 'of sorts' because towards the end I could sense the impatience in Jacob, he was giving up because I was far too broken. There was resignation in Jacob's dark eyes when I saw him a couple of days ago when he delivered the Harley, and my lack of talk about future plans sealed the deal: there would be no further 'friendship'.

Charlie had seen the motorcycle on the weekend when I had brought it out of hiding, and expressed his mumbling abhorrence. For once, I put my foot down, and he simply walked away. My thoughts went back to the conversation Charlie and I had had over breakfast yesterday, and I speculated on what he was trying to accomplish . . . I came up with nothing.

_Empty threats_.

Yesterday, not yet recovering from Charlie's intrusive conversation, I had taken my first day off school in the entire time I was a student at Forks High School.

I sighed, and pulled out a cigarette from the packet, and leaned against the Harley as I lit it up, cupping the flame with a pale hand, tipped with crimson nails. I inhaled deeply, and held the smoke, before blowing out through my full, scarlet-painted lips in one thin stream of smoke.

"Fuck," I breathed, basking in momentary bliss, before I heard the first of the whispers.

"Is that _Bella_?"

"Who's the new girl?"

"Whoa . . ."

I screwed my eyes shut, conscious of the thick coating of mascara and the way I had lined them with kohl, careful that they might smudge.

I was going to be different, all the while trying to maintain a level of inconspicuousness in this pathetic little high school. Lauren Mallory's nasal voice had already started up the rumour mills from the other side of the parking lot, and I took another deep drag of the cigarette, darkly amused—I wonder how much she would exaggerate the truth this time.

I pocketed the lighter and packet, and pulled out my trigonometry textbook, reading over the chapter we were going to cover in class today, whilst taking the occasional drag of my cigarette. When finished, a few minutes before the bell, I stubbed the golden butt out with the sole of my boot, and giving a one over to my bike, I picked up my helmet and bag, and went inside, head held high. I was rather proud of myself for some reason. My helmet fit in my locker after some reshuffling of books, and the sense of accomplishment rose. I discreetly popped a breath mint into my mouth, not overly enjoying the aftertaste in my mouth.

"Is that _you_, Bella?" I heard a familiar voice ask.

I looked behind me where a timid Angela Webber stood. Angela was one of those rare people who were inherently good. She was a little taller than my five foot ten inches, and wore glasses. She was my only true friend here in Forks.

I smiled just as shyly and nodded. "Hi Angela."

Before I could comprehend the move, Angela had pulled me into a fierce hug.

"God, I missed you, Bella," she said, quietly.

I couldn't, for the life of me, remember the last time I was hugged. I thought back, racked my brain, and filtered through all the bursts of pain. Not even when my mother had visited me at the hospital in Seattle, where I was almost on my deathbed, did she show an ounce of unconditional emotion. Renée had sat in the seat beside me, stoic, and stony-faced.

I hugged Angela back with as much energy as I could muster. Tears welling up in my eyes. "I missed you too, Ange. So much."

She pulled back, but held onto my shoulders, and then nodded. "I like this," she said, giving me a once over with her eyes.

I shrugged. "It's okay," I whispered. "I almost didn't get out of the house," I then confessed, bubbling to the brim with truth, and ready to spill my guts to anybody who truly cared.

Angela let go, and straightened up her bag. "Well I'm glad you did," she said, and then reached up to wipe a tear on my cheek that I didn't know had dribbled out. "Are you okay, Bella?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Not really, no."

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**A/N: Hey, I hope you liked that. There's probably going to be a tonne of foreshadowing throughout, but I guess eventually, or even now, you'll be able to piece together the consequences of the Cullens' departure from Forks.**

**Calling all you Jasper lovers, and aficionados of all things Volturi! Check out my other almost-completed FanFiction called **_**Searching for Peace**_**. It would mean the world.**

**Let me know what you think and leave any questions you have. I'll do my best to answer the questions without giving too much away. **

**XxX**


	3. Desires

**A/N: Hey, folks!**

**I had a little inkling that an Alistair/Bella fic was long overdue, and it seems that I have been proven right. Once again, I am completely blown away by the way you have all responded to the story, and I'm shocked whenever I get an email that yet somebody else has put the story on alert or reviewed, or even as a favourite!**

**I hope your support remains unwavering, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. No copyright infringement is intended.**

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**Bella**

_**Friday 23**__**rd**__** September 2005**_

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"Bella?" called Charlie from the kitchen, just as I was making my way out of the door to school.

I walked back into the kitchen, and presented myself to him. He gave me a long, wide-eyed, look, stretching from my scarlet lips, over my leather jacket, and down to my laced-up boots. With a quick fleeting look to the chair in front of him, and then back up to meet my dark speculative eyes, he gave a low grunting sound that was innately Charlie.

I took the cue to perch myself on the seat.

Before Charlie could strike, I began to speak, giving a much-needed explanation to him: "I know you don't like this, Dad, believe me, but it's something I had to do . . . I don't want to fade away, y'know? I want to be remembered here, I want to lay down _some_ roots here, Dad, and I can't _stand_"—anger began to fuel my speech—"that _they_ are dictating the way I'm living my life." I wiped the tears from my cheeks with quick swipes of my hands. "I've realised what I have to do."

Charlie and I were never for displays of affection, but he reached out and held onto my clasped hands, eyes glassy. "It's been difficult for me, Bells, to see how you deteriorated these past few months. It was me that brought you to this godforsaken place, and I can never be sorry enough." I began to protest, but he tightened his hold on my hands and shot me a warning look. "You can't argue here, Bella. If I wasn't here in Washington, then you would have never been . . ." I winced at the way he choked up, trailing off. "You were safe with your mother in Phoenix, and I still stand by what I said last week; Bells, I want you to leave here, leave and never come back."

There was no room for disagreeing; his tone of voice had made that perfectly clear. So I laid down my proposition, something I had been mulling over since last week; Charlie was predictable, and I knew he would bring up this issue again. "I'm going to graduate in the summer," I told him quietly. "There's this scholarship program that I've submitted some essays to, and they've yet to send me an email, but I think I've done really well. It's . . . umm Cambridge, though."

"Cambridge?" Charlie asked. "England?"

I nodded.

There was a momentary silence. "You're college fund will help," he mumbled. "There's a lot there, my life's savings. It's enough to get you through comfortably, even without the scholarship."

I blinked, confused, unable believe my ears. "You're savings? You're agreeing?" I asked, dumbfounded.

He sighed. "It'll get you away from here," he said, resigned. "That's all I want."

* * *

That night, after another tiring day at Forks High, filled to the brim with Harry Clearwater's Fish Fry, I lay in bed, thinking over the conversation that Charlie and I'd had in the morning. To be perfectly honest, it was all I had been thinking about all day.

I had seriously underestimated Charlie's want for me to leave Forks. Ever since what happened, ever since I had become lucid enough to understand what was going on around me, ever since I _fully_ recovered, I had the suspicion that Charlie wasn't completely happy with me staying with him anymore. Although, I knew him well enough that he didn't harbour the same grudges that Renée did against me; no, Charlie, without a shadow of a doubt, loved me. He did not want me to leave Forks unless it had become absolutely necessary. This much I had understood after a day of thinking about it.

What still fazed me, though, is that Charlie agreed to let me move to a different country, a country that was four and a half thousand miles away. Charlie was hesitant for me to be on a plane from Phoenix to Port Angeles, insistent that he could get time off work to drive there and then take me back to Forks. It had taken some time for me to convince him otherwise! But now, he was suddenly okay with me travelling across the North Atlantic to live in England?

I took in a deep lungful of air, and turned onto my back, my thoughts running in every direction, and sleep nowhere in sight. Over the past week I had gotten about five hours sleep, which was more than I had got the week before. I had fallen asleep on Saturday night, and woke in yells of terror, and Charlie restraining me to the bed, and whispering empty promises in my ear as I calmed down.

'_Nobody will hurt you ever again, Bells, sweetheart. You'll get better, I know it.'_

Charlie wasn't oblivious to my lack of sleep. His snores would halt sometime between three and four o'clock in the morning, indicating that he was awake. He would creep over to my room, where once he opened the door, he would find me engrossed in a book, in homework, or just staring at the ceiling in my zombie-stupor. Charlie would then smile sadly, and close the door, going back to sleep for another hour or so. He'd done this very thing only a couple of minutes ago, and found me strewn across my bed, thinking about Cambridge.

I wanted to study English at Cambridge, something I knew for a fact, I would do well in. Lately, though, I found myself steering away from the works of the Bronte sisters and Austen, books that I had read religiously throughout my life. I couldn't deal with the inevitability, the sense of fate, the sheer romance in the novels. I found myself writing, instead, on scraps of paper and in the margins of my notes; I would convey the complexity, the simplicity, of my emotions through sentences that were no more than fifteen words. I'd then feel the nakedness, my guard falling, and spend a good minute scribbling out the words . . . It was a vicious circle: there was a chaotic desire within me to covey to at least something what I was feeling, and it just so happened to be a piece of paper.

Dear Angela was the shoulder that my temple leaned on through lunch this past week. She endured my senseless mumblings, and sat with me in the haze of cigarette smoke that she inhaled deeply (she was a consenting passive smoker). Angela did not prod; she had patience by the bucket load, and used it to endure me. Besides Charlie, she was the only person I had told about Cambridge. She was so happy she had burst into tears, and then once more, knowing that I wouldn't really see her come this time next year; she had thought that we'd both go to an Ivy League school together, I consoled her that I might not even get the scholarship and we'd be together.

My thoughts faded into nothingness, and I counted Charlie's snores from the other room, knowing he'd wake soon.

_Seventy-six . . . seventy-seven . . ._

_Edward Cullen._

I buried my face into my pillow and let out a strangled scream, seeing his beautiful feral face flash behind my closed eyes. I saw Tyler's van come hurtling towards me once more, and then Edward, pinning me down against the concrete. His hand leaving indents in the van. The missing dent in the fender of my old Chevy that could have killed us both, but didn't. I saw blood dribbling down his chin, the product of my overactive imagination.

I slammed my fist against my pillow in a fit of rage.

_You loved him._

I took in a shuddering breath. "But I don't anymore," I said to myself. For the first time in a while, I believed it. After what happened, after the rumours started, I had clung desperately to this one revelation where nothing else in my world no longer made sense.

I heard Charlie moving about in his room, and then after a few moments, he came over to peer into my room, seeing a scene that was not entirely unlike what he had walked in on a few hours ago. He gave me a tight smile and mumble that sounded like 'good morning' and then closed the door behind him.

I glanced over to my alarm clock and saw that it was quarter-past five. Charlie was going to be late.

I threw on my bathrobe, and went downstairs, and set about making Charlie a nice breakfast. It was the least I could do after he had told me he was going to give me the entirety of his savings and allow me to go to study in England. In any other circumstances, and if the need wasn't this dire, I would have flat-out refused; with the amount of money Charlie had claimed he had, he could have a great retirement, but I figured that this was what he was saving for all along. Charlie was not the type who would lounge around for days at a time, let alone years! I expect that Charlie would work until he was unable to move any longer, but I chose not to think about that.

I dunked some pieces of bread into some egg, and set about making Charlie some French toast.

When Charlie came downstairs, he was positively beaming at the scent of bacon and the glorified eggy-bread.

"Thanks, Bells," he said. I shrugged, and sipped on my scalding coffee. After he took a couple of humongous bites he mumbled, "I'm going to miss not having you around."

My throat choked up with the onset of tears. "I'm going to miss you too, Dad. So much. But it's a while away, so don't you worry now."

He smiled. "Time flies, Bells."

* * *

Like most of my Saturdays, I spent it by doing household chores in my in my ivory lace underwear. It was an unusually warm day in Forks, but that didn't mean I could forgo the need to have the heating on. I would dread to explain why Charlie perhaps might find me passed out in the kitchen, scantily clad, and lips blue from hypothermia.

Our house, like many of the others in Forks, was surrounded by some land, and expanses of thick forest between them. Upon my arrival here, I was horrified; Forks was a tiny town, in the middle of nowhere, but the way the houses and streets were laid out only added to this sense of seclusion. However, I grew to like it. For instance, I could hang out the washing, wearing just my robe over my underwear, and there would not be a soul here to see it. Often at twilight, under the pretence of reading a book, I would sit on the back porch swing, and stare into the trees, until it became too much, until I _remembered_ too much.

After I hanging a final t-shirt, the sense that somebody was watching me made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my body prickle with gooseflesh. I turned and looked into the trees, noticing that it far quieter than usual. There was not a noise but the faint melody of Debussy within the house. My heartbeat raced, and I wondered whether this was what I wanted all along? Did I truly want to put on a show behind an unbreakable boundary? I looked down at the grass peeking through the gaps between my toes with scarlet nails, and thought not about the sensation of walking around this garden barefoot, as I had been doing, but about giving an effortless tug at the ties of my robe, so the black silk would fall from my shoulder and. . . .

I found my hands trembling at my sides, itching to do as I was imaging, heat pooling between my legs, at the mere thought. I raised my head and looked to the trees once more, knowing my cheeks were flaming, and thought about how I would look to this onlooker. Perhaps I appeared scared? Frightened? Or maybe I looked like motionless vision of _need_, something I wished for dearly?

I gave a short, barely audible laugh. What direction had my thoughts turned?

A minute ago, I was putting out the washing, but now! I was trembling; the wind was whipping my dark hair away from my face, and my hands had a life of their own, one toying with the front of my robe, and the other trailing up and down my neck. My eyes fluttered shut, and I all but moaned in pleasure at the simple touch.

_Snap!_

My eyes flew open, knowing I did not imagine the distinct sound of a branch breaking. The sound was thunderous in the silence, and I gasped, unable to believe the wisp of something in the trees. I instinctively took a step back, knowing there was no qualms about me seeing a flash of black, darting just before the line of the trees at the end of the yard, and then disappearing.

I only knew of one thing that had the power to move that fast, and before I could help myself, I whispered, "Vampire."

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**A/N: A little time may have passed, but our stubborn Bella is certain that vampires exist. It's hardly a surprise! The Cullens were perhaps not as discreet at they would like to think.**

**I wonder who was in the trees?**

**Let me know what you think and leave any questions you have. I'll do my best to answer the questions without giving too much away.**

**XxX**


	4. Hello

**A/N: Hey, folks! I don't think I'm going to stop being amazed by the response to this story, and because of it I'm all the motivated to write these chapters much faster.**

**My other story **_**Searching For Peace**_**, a Jasper/Bella fic is almost complete and an edit of it is starting to be put on which is just a fabulous site made for FanFiction and original work. Check it out!**

**I hope your support remains unwavering, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Bella**

_**Saturday 24th September 2005**_

* * *

In that brief moment, whilst being faced with a possible source of answers that I desperately desired, I was presented with a choice: either I could forget life here, pursue my voyeur and end up in a situation that would never allow me to come back to life in this town, or I could calmly walk back inside the house, forget what I saw, and continue ahead with plans for a life that was serene and danger-free. I exhaled deeply; I was stuck in a limbo between my desires and responsibility.

_Charlie._

I chose responsibility.

I picked up the empty basket that I had used to carry out the washing, and headed back inside, my heart racing, and feeling a shiver run up my spine. I looked over my shoulder, scanning the tree line. I gulped, wondering whether my eyes were playing tricks on me, imagining things that were not there, or whether I was actually looking at a shadow of a figure, deep in the trees.

In a burst of confidence that was more likely an indicator of a dark desire of death, I murmured a soft, "Hello," into the breeze, and just as I hoped, the figure vanished.

I wondered whether I had signed my own death sentence

I went inside, and although my head was filled with thoughts of the figure in the trees, I managed to get my chores done. Steaks were marinating in some subtle spices, and the baked potatoes were parboiled, and ready to stick into the oven a couple of hours before Charlie arrived home from a day at work. I had finished all my homework and even started on an English essay that wasn't due until Christmas.

Nevertheless, the inevitable occurred. Late-afternoon, I found myself on the back porch swing, settling down with my battered copy of _Wuthering Heights_. The air in Forks had become almost unbearably humid, and I pulled apart the opening of my robe, and played seductress whilst I read. I hadn't a clue what I hoped to achieve with this farce of virtue, but I hoped it was enough to entice my spectator in the very least.

_All this effort, all this preparation for a life that you're never going to lead. Cambridge? What a joke you've become, Bella._

As much as I wanted to stay true to my earlier decision of choosing responsibility over desire, I knew that I fundamentally would not be able to keep to that decision. When faced with all the wonder of the supernatural, and then to have it viciously snatched away could do the worst kind of things to the mind. I gritted my teeth, my hands gripping the books in my hands in a harsh clasp, unadulterated fury boiling my blood. The Cullens—vary rarely did I allow their name to invade my thoughts—they obviously made the decision that I could not keep their secret, and by leaving they only demonstrated that I was correct in my assumptions. I wondered why they even chose to stick around after I was almost crushed by Tyler's van. Was it because they thought I was foolish enough to _not_ be plagued by thoughts of my survival, my cheating of fate? Or was it because I simply was not good enough for their world?

This final question fuelled me to whisper more words into the wind, _Wuthering Heights_ forgotten in my lap. Intuition and the same feeling of being watched told me that there was again somebody out there.

"I'm Isabella," I said, wondering why I was choosing to introduce myself by my full name, other than the simple fact that it felt appropriate. "I was conceived and born in the bedroom that I sleep in, by Renée Higgenbottom and Charles Swan, though I've only really lived here this past year. My parents are happily divorced. Although, sometimes I think that Charlie hasn't entirely moved on; he pines over the earlier memories of Renée and prefers not to think about the heinous bitch she later became." I laughed lightly, internally questioning my sanity, and concluding that I so far gone that there was no coming back. "I haven't a clue whether you care," I said quickly, my confidence waning, "but I'd like you to know that you're always welcome here, if you need a place to stay, regardless of _who_ and _what_ you are. Goodbye for now, my Stranger," I said, standing and closing the ties of my black silk robe, whilst staring into the forest."

* * *

Charlie and I conversed about the station over dinner, whilst breaking a handful of laws about confidentiality. He told me about a case of two hikers found washed up on the shores of La Push this morning, seeming to have fallen from the cliffs into the sea.

"We, being officers of only Forks, have no jurisdiction over La Push," he said, a little angrily whilst roughly cutting into his steak. "However, that doesn't mean that we are not allowed to be aware of the stuff that goes on there. After all, the bodies of the hikers were admitted in the hospital here at Forks, so therefore we were allowed to ask some questions to the boy that found them, an Embry Call. D'you know him?"

I nodded a little. "Not personally," I said, "but he's Jacob's best friend."

"Hmm . . . The Embry was pretty shook up about it, and who wouldn't be? The hikers were probably dead for a couple of days now, and it wasn't at all a pretty sight. The boy's only fifteen or sixteen." I frowned, and shook my head. That was two deaths too many to see at that age. "The strange thing though, Bells, is that forensics said that it's becoming more and more likely that these men weren't killed by the sea or the fall."

I took a sip of some water, washing down the spice. "Are you saying that they were thrown into the water as a cover-up?"

Charlie shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know, kiddo, but I pray to God that that's not the case. I'm getting a little too old to start worrying about the prospect of another murder in this town."

I hummed. There hadn't been a murder in this part of Washington in about twenty years. In the eighties, as Charlie once had told me over another dinner when I first arrived in Forks, there had been a convict that had escaped from Seattle who had found his way to Forks. Long story short, he had killed an entire family, the Feildons, and buried their horrifically mutilated corpses in their back garden. Charlie had only joined the police force a few years prior, and had nightmares about the Feildons for a week, imagining the couple and their three teenage daughters, begging him for help as they were cut to death by the murder's weapon of choice: a Stanley knife. I shuddered at the image, and had sardonically thanked Charlie that night for bestowing me with his fertile imagination.

"Would you have to investigate if it is a murder?" I asked, though knowing the answer as soon as I spoke.

He shook his head. "No. The bodies were found on the reservation which makes the case under their authority, and I doubt they have the resources, they also have too much pride to start asking for help."

I sighed. "Whoever had killed the hikers is most likely going to get away with it."

"Yeah. It's a damn shame, but I'll have word with Billy tomorrow, seeing as he's on the Council."

"You're going fishing?" I asked, finishing off my baked potato.

"It _is_ Sunday tomorrow, Bells," he grinned, his worries forgotten.

* * *

The sound of Charlie's snores was, just like any other night, the indicator that he had fallen asleep.

I walked over to the back window of my room that faced the back yard, my hair wet and body damp from the shower I had taken, and pushed it open, breathing in huge gulps of the fresh air. The cloudless sky, alight with hundreds of glistening stars and the half-moon gave the night a beautiful glow. The humidity from earlier on in the day had evaporated, leaving no trace of the storm it had indicated – I had hoped for a great rainstorm so I could stand outside, feel it soak into my pores, and breathe in the earthy scent of the waterlogged earth.

I sat on the edge of my windowsill, and stared out into the night sky, reflecting over this afternoon; my toe dipped into the sea of madness, testing the waters. I had a strange logic regarding this scenario; if I were a vampire, and I came across a person—a human, no less—confident enough to call that creature out on their existence, I would make sure that they posed as no threat; therefore, this creature, my Stranger, must have stuck around, simply for observational purposes at the least. Embarrassment coloured my cheeks, thinking over how _much _my Stranger would have observed just over this day. My heart raced, and I squirmed, feeling desire pool between my legs, imagining a faceless entity—my Stranger—looking onto the two scenes of this afternoon.

Leaving the window wide open, and whispering a parting, "Goodnight," I walked back to my bed, and crawled under the covers, feeling bone-crushing exhaustion sweep over me. For the first time in many weeks of alertness, the desire to sleep and dream overcame me, and I welcomed whatever the night may bring.

My eyes fluttered close, and after months of feigning sleep for Charlie's peace of mind, I relaxed, and let my perfected imitation of slumber take me. I had been practicing meditation, and breathed in and out, using 'life' and 'death' as my two choice words.

_Life._

_Death._

_Life._

_Death._

_Life . . ._

_Death . . ._

Some five minutes into this, my breaths came further and further apart, and my heart slowed. My thoughts became a fluid stream of nothingness, and contentedness prevailed over all feeling. I could hardly feel myself against the mattress, or feel the thick duvet against my skin. But I heard _everything._ I could hear the faint breeze in the trees outside, and the sound of an ambulance's siren on the main road that connected to the end of our street. In the trees, deep in the forest, an owl sang. There was no escaping from Charlie's snores, but I tuned them out, and they became a thrum in the background of it all.

Unexpectedly, outside in the forest, the owl stopped its song, and apart from the wind through the trees, there was silence. I focused on keeping my breathing level, and my heart rate level, even through the sound of the floor creaking by the window. I knew this because when Charlie had got the carpet re-laid in my bedroom before my arrival, one of the more heavy-set men had accidently left the wooden floorboards under the carpet a little worse for wear. One of the boards now creaked when stepped on; Charlie and I knew exactly where the board was, so for our own safety we avoided stepping in that general area; I usually stepped over where I assumed the creaky floorboard to be. Now, somebody who was not familiar with the room would be oblivious to this.

My Stranger was here.

I fought the urge to smile.

The same sense of being watched started up in the pit of my stomach, and I cursed my instincts for reacting the way they did. My skin prickled with Goosebumps, and I took in a deep breath.

_Death._

_Life._

I turned on my side, facing the window, and opened my eyes, feasting on the vision before me.

He was kneeling by the edge of my bed, eyes shut, and lashes brushing his cheeks. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, and the left side was pulled behind his ear. The panes of his face were entirely masculine, and I was in wonder of the beauty of the figure before me. The urge to reach out and run the tips of my fingers down the contours of his face and trace his full lips, was overpowering all thought, but I controlled it as much as I could.

Except unable to help _this_ urge, I whispered a greeting: "Hello."

His eyes flew open, as if the movement had not even happened. The eyes of my Stranger were a wondrous hue of ruby, centred with an endless black. His eyes were so unlike the gold I thought were natural to his kind, and there was no doubt about this last thing too, he was most definitely a vampire.

We breathed in simultaneously, and I whimpered, briefly weakened by my yearning to have him consume me right them, the consequences be damned. His fragrance was that of rain and earth, and an orchard of apples in bloom; it felt as though he was made to break me.

His pupils defeated the ruby of his irises, and a deep rumble started in his chest, his nostrils flaring.

I sat up, completely aware of every movement I made, and his eyes were fixed on mine. I folded my legs under me, and moved backwards so there was enough room between us on the bed, should he chose to take it.

There was a minute's silence.

"Am I _truly_ welcome here?" he asked, his accent sounding English which intrigued me greatly.

I nodded, deducing from his question that he must have heard me when I speaking outside earlier. Which also meant that he saw me, and I was suddenly submerged by warmth.

"I'm Alistair," he said, rising to his feet.

I looked up at his tall, slender frame. He could not be shorter than six feet. He was wearing a long weatherproof coat, a thick jumper, some jeans, and sturdy boots. A strap of a backpack peaked on his shoulders. He looked like he had been exposed to the elements for weeks, if not, months.

I smiled slightly. "It's nice to _finally_ meet you, Alistair," I said. "I'm Isabella."

A grin tugged on the corner of his mouth when I said 'finally'. "I know," he said simply; of course, he did!

He pulled off his backpack and coat, and folded it. In a movement that was too quick for my eyes, he had pulled the over-sized jumped over his head, and placed both things on the back of the old rocking chair by my wardrobe, and the backpack at his feet. He sat down in the chair in a thermal vest and began pulling at the laces of his boots, his eyes still on me. When he got his shoes off, he stood and tugged his vest out of his jeans, and brought his hands to his belt buckle.

I gasped, "What are you doing?"

Here a great paradox of Isabella Swan came to light. I was perfectly fine parading around in my underwear, out in the open, but when I was presented a situation like this, where genuine intimacy was within grasp, I shied away. The psychologists were always amazed that I did not develop any form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after what happened that night, and to be honest, so did I. Instead, I developed something that was the entire opposite: a more domineering exhibitionist side. I was fucked up, to quite plainly put it.

He smirked, challenge in his eyes. "I'm changing my clothes, dear," he said, whipping his belt out of his jeans. "It's awful wearing the same set for months." He reached down, opened his backpack and pulled out similar pair of black jeans and another white thermal vest. "D'you mind if I use your bathroom, Isabella?"

I shook my head. "It's the last door down the hall."

He nodded, and with a click of the door, he was gone. The sound of the shower starting down the hall, echoed in the silent house. I knew that Charlie slept like the dead, and wouldn't be awake for a few hours.

We would be fine for now, my Stranger and I.

* * *

**A/N: I had the urge to finish this chapter a little earlier, but I knew that most of you would not respond well to a cliffy after this.**

**So what d'you think? I know, given the pairing in this story, it might have been obvious that the Stranger was Alistair, but hey! I liked it. Also, if you need any help imagining Alistair, I think Lee Pace should do it. I realise that he did not play Alistair in the movie, but rather Garrett, but I think he suits Alistair much more. He has the hair and everything!**

**Let me know what you think and leave any questions you have. I'll do my best to answer the questions without giving too much away.**

**XxX**


	5. Dark

**A/N: Hey, folks! I don't think I'm going to stop being amazed by the response to this story, and because of it I'm all the motivated to write these chapters much faster. I think my response to seeing the emails I'd got from FanFiction on Thursday was **'**Whoa . . . **_**Seriously**_**?'**

**Also, you may have noticed a change in my name on here. I'd always felt a little awkward with my previous one, and I thought this was a little better.**

**I hope your support remains unwavering, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Bella**

_**Sunday 25**__**th**__** September 2005**_

* * *

I lay in bed, counting the clicks of the clock at my bedside, waiting for Alistair to finish with his shower. I suppose it was expected—him taking so long in there—he had been outside for so long, and if I'd been similar circumstances, I would be craving the sensation of hot water pounding the flesh-clad muscles of my shoulders. I avoided all thought of actually imagining Alistair in the shower, purely because of the likelihood of him actually hearing me in here; I knew that a vampire's senses were unparalleled because he had heard the whispered words I had spoken from his place deep in the forest—he would of course hear me from the shower.

Some fifteen-hundred seconds later, my bedroom door was pushed open. Alistair walked in casually, as if he had been here all his life, and he set his clothes on the rocking chair in the corner. His dark hair was dripping around his shoulders, and droplets of water glistened on his pale skin. His jeans hung low on his hips, and his white vest was a little raised, and gave me sight of a wondrous sliver of skin between the two garments.

"Leave you clothes out," I told him, sitting up, as he reached for his backpack, "I'll throw them in the wash for you later."

He froze, and then gave a slight nod of his head. "Thank you."

I smiled. "It's no problem."

He sighed, and flashed to where I sat in bed. I gasped a little, eyes growing large. Alistair grinned a little, and looked down at the bed and then back at me, silently asking for permission. I blushed, and nodded, pulling down the covers. He took the seat, sitting a little awkwardly at first, but then sinking into the mattress, and putting both of his legs on the bed.

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes. It was one of those uncomfortable silences, where both people were at lost for words, a little like a lull in conversation. I realised after a little while that he was perhaps waiting for me to offer some explanation to how I knew what he was, if the look he briefly gave me when I caught his eyes a couple of seconds was anything to go by. I sighed and shifted a little under the duvet, my entire right side that was _just_ separated from his left, thrumming, alive.

"There was a family of . . . your kind living here," I said quietly, "that's how I know what you are."

He frowned. "What was their name?" he asked, turning to look at me.

"Umm . . . The Cullens."

His eyes grew large, and he made a hissing sound. "Cullen?" he seethed. "As in _Carlisle_ Cullen?"

Confusion temporarily stunned me. "You know them? Him?"

He nodded, his eyes were dangerously dark. "We are . . . friends, I suppose, despite my wanting otherwise." His tone changed to mocking at the end, and I wondered what he meant. "I cannot believe that he would be so irresponsible!"

"What do you mean?"

He gave me an incredulous look. "Isabella . . . Surely you must have worked it out by now. It is treacherous that a human is knowledgeable of our existence, to them, and to us." I was briefly taken aback by the eloquence of his tone, his enunciation and articulate speech; paired with his accent, I could gladly lay back and have him talk to me for days at a time. I then focused on the content of his words, his meaning, and stifled out a gasp. "The fact that Carlisle Cullen of all people has allowed a human to live, knowing the secret, is just typical! Only Carlisle!"

I crossed my arms over my chest, and stared at him. "So I suppose I should be on guard then, huh? Just waiting to have the blood sucked from my veins, because I can't be trusted? Is that what it is?"

He gritted his teeth, and a rumbling, growl-like sound boiled in his chest, and spilled from his lips. "Perhaps," he said through his teeth, and looked down at my neck. "You could never be too sure with this hunger, Isabella."

Adrenaline pumped into my veins. I took in a deep breath of his woodland scent. "I expected it."

He furrowed his brows. "You'd not even met me, yet you knew what I was. You were expecting that I would kill you, yet you invite me into your home."

"Yes."

His eyes shot down to my neck, and I realised at once that he was looking at my vein. He raised a hand, and placed it around my neck. I gasped: his skin was even colder than Edward's was in that fleeting touch in that Biology lesson so long ago. My toes curled, and a wanton sound of unbridled desire escaped my moist mouth. His eyes grew pitch black, a colour that only made my heart race faster. I wondered how close to death I was tiptoeing.

"Isabella," he said with warning evident in his voice.

Once my senses were my own again, and Alistair's eyes were their ruby colour, what was happening between him and I hit me like a tonne of bricks. I seriously doubted he saw me no greater than a stripper or common whore—to be frank, I would think the same of myself if I were in his place. I sighed, and buried my face in my hands, the mood in the room changing completely. My cheeks were aflame, burning with mortification. I doubted that in the time that he had known me, which was not long at all, he probably saw me as the stereotypical eighteen tear-old: horny. And I was in no place to believe that he would want anything more than a quick fuck and suck my blood to the point where my heart lay dead in my chest, my life drained.

In a burst of long forgotten self-preservation, I made a move to get away from him. I had only made it a couple of feet from my bed, before I was halted in my steps, his hands gripping onto shoulders, and making an escape impossible without humiliating myself any further. My skin tingled, anticipating touch, and my crimson fingernails dug into the flesh of my palm, the only way of dealing with such frustration.

"Where are you going, Isabella," he murmured, his breath tickling my ear.

"Nowhere," I said. "I just need some space."

He gave a throaty chuckle. "Space . . . ?" he mused. "Is this because you've realised the danger that you're in?"

I sighed, and I turned my head to my right, so his face was in my peripheral vision. "I always knew I was in danger," I told him. "I'm a _magnet_ for danger, and you—"

From down the hallway, a door hinge creaked.

"Charlie," I hissed. "Hide!" I ordered him.

He let me go and vanished. I took a second to regain some composure, darted to my bed, and pretended to sleep.

I heard Charlie hovering outside my room for a few seconds before he pushed the door open.

"Bells?" Charlie whispered. The abrupt urge to smile hit me, and I locked my jaw in place. "Are you asleep?"

_For heaven's sake!_

There was silence for a second, but then I heard his footsteps coming closer and closer to the bed. I tensed. I sensed him leaning over, and quickly, almost as if it didn't happen, Charlie pressed a kiss between my brows and then left the room. I lay there for a while, wide-eyed, trying to assimilate what had just happened. I couldn't even remember the last time that Charlie had kissed me, things between us being awkward even when we accidently brushed hands when I handed him his dinner. Then, a vision of one of my several nights in a dimly lit Seattle hospital flashed before my eyes, a watery eyed Charlie, holding my hand to his mouth, and periodically kissing it, mumbling apologies that he hadn't been there to save his 'little girl'.

Tears leaked from my eyes, and I blubbered into my hand.

I couldn't even fathom how Charlie would react to my death—something that was becoming more and more likely the longer I lived. Eventually, Alistair's _own_ survival instincts would kick in, and he would realise that I was simply not worth it. But that was the thing; Alistair (if he valued his own existence) could not allow me to live if his own life was on the line that much I had gathered from my Stranger.

I now wept not only for my father, but for my own life too. How had I been so stupid? Why on earth had I invited Death into my own home so easily? Was it because of the fucking _thrill_?

I felt a cold body sliding under the covers of my single bed, and the fighting spirit, the preservation instinct, fled from my body. I welcomed the simple touch of having him pull me close to his foreign body, his cold hand skimming the hem of my sleep-shorts and hooking my leg over his hip. My stomach tingled with a dull current that was a regular incidence in the lonely nights I had to myself. Alistair lifted my chin with the back of his hand.

"Why are you crying, Isabella?" he asked, staring into my watery eyes.

Involuntarily, the leg that was placed around his hips, flexed, crushing me harder against him. I sighed, and looked away from his questioning eyes. "I don't know . . . Charlie's not going to survive if I die." I whimpered.

Alistair wiped my wet cheeks. "And why would you die?"

I sighed, exasperated, and went for the blunt approach: "You're going to kill me." He was still for a second, before his hand roamed up my thigh again. And before I could stop, I said, "You must think I'm a whore."

"What?" he gasped, his hand spreading across the small of my back, and pulling me impossibly closer. "I think nothing of the like, sweetheart." I shook my head, trying to think through the haze in my mind that his scent created, and the lure of his voice. "You are as pure as light."

I laughed outright, though conscious of Charlie sleeping a little way away. "I'm the furthest thing away than _pure_," I scoffed. "Just look at me! You're a stranger, I don't even know you, and you're already in my bed!"

He looked, for a passing moment, hurt. He then peered down at our intertwined bodies, my chest heaving, and my heartbeat visibly vibrating my chest. "I'd been under the impression that I was welcome here . . . with you, Isabella. You said so yourself."

"I did," I agreed, "but that was before you'd made it clear that I was taking numbered breaths."

His jaw flexed as he clenched and then unclenched it a few times. He swallowed a couple of times too. "Killing you would be the right thing to do." Fear caused my body to quake with a shudder. "_However_," he said, "you seem to make warm company"—I blushed, my stomach coiling—"_wonderfully_ warm company," he almost groaned, "and I dread to think what your death would do to me. I'm afraid I'm already becoming attached to you, Isabella."

Somehow, my hand had found its way to grip the feathery dark hair at the back of his neck, and impulsively, I pushed his head closer to me, our breaths hardly even our own.

"I'm glad," I said in a voice that did not seem like my own. "I don't think I could bear leaving Charlie."

"You will eventually, though," he said softly. "Soon, too. I'm not used to staying in one particular place for a long time. It's not safe."

"What are you running from?"

His eyes darted down to my mouth, and then back at my eyes. "Everything," he whispered.

* * *

**A/N: So that was Alistair! How did you like him? I think I'm going to introduce Bella slowly into his more savage side, which he **_**will**_** have, don't you worry. Decades in the wilderness can do that to a person, and even more so to the impressionable and unforgiving vampire.**

**Let me know what you think and leave any questions you have. I'll do my best to answer the questions without giving too much away.**

**XxX**


	6. Solitude

**A/N: Hey, folks! I guess this took a little longer than I was hoping, but it's still rather quick by my own standards. Once again, I'm completely blown away by the response. I received a total of 26 reviews for that last chapter, and I'm sorry if I've missed any review replies out, I tried my best to get them all answered, hopefully I'll do better this time around. Let's see if we can beat it this time around!**

**This chapter includes something that I know you'd all been craving for a while, and hopefully it'll come as a nice surprise. Take it as a thank you for your wonderful reviews.**

**I hope your support remains unwavering, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Bella**

_**Sunday 25**__**th**__** September 2005**_

* * *

Alistair leaned down and softly brushed his lips across mine. My mouth parted, ready to make this leap, but it seemed that he had other intentions. Alistair backed away a little, leaving me panting a little, struggling for breath, even with such a simple gesture.

"I'm running from everything, Isabella," he said. "From my kind, from yours." He gave a small shake of his head at my questioning expression. "Not now . . . You should sleep, I'm sorry for keeping you awake for so long."

I gave a humourless laugh. "I don't sleep."

"What?" he asked, somewhat amused, like he had a secret.

The thought of telling him a lie crossed my mind for a second, because undoubtedly, if I told him the truth, there would be hundreds of more questions on his mind, questions that I simply could not answer. Instead, I settled for a half-truth, "Nightmares." The fact of the matter was that they were memories, not something my subconscious had conjured up by itself; the events of that night haunted me even in my sleep, and for that reason, I did not sleep. Wasn't one night of it, one terrible night, enough? Why was I made to suffer like this?

"No," Alistair said, snapping me out of my thoughts, "I wouldn't think you would be willing to go to sleep with the threat of something like that hanging over your head . . . Although, I must admit, I would give anything to sleep, to dream."

My lips twitched, fighting a smile. "I take it you don't carry around a coffin? Or sleep for that matter?"

He laughed lightly, his thumb circling around my hipbone. "No, Isabella, I don't have a coffin nor do I sleep. It's comical what you humans come up with, your romanticisms of the horrific." I grimaced; Alistair obviously did not see himself clearly. "Humans have a little peculiarity," he said, somewhat contemplative, "you _must _anthropomorphise . . . It seems that some cannot imagine another being living in another way that you do, and if they do find dissimilarity . . . then it's not human at all!" I nodded once, completely in accord with him, and smiles, adoring the passion in his speech. "It explains why you give Vampires weaknesses—garlic, sunlight—because your kind has too many to account for in themselves."

"I'll agree there," I said, "even in ourselves, we focus on our flaws, our weaknesses, instead of what makes us strong." As soon as I said the words, I felt the weight of hypocrisy fall on my heart. I was spewing words that I believed to be true, yet I didn't act upon them myself.

"Exactly! The only true weakness a vampire has is fire," he revealed, "or perhaps maybe the sunlight."

"The sunlight? But you said that doesn't do any harm?"

He shook his head. "No, I was speaking the truth earlier. It doesn't do us any harm at all, but it's the consequences of us being in the sunlight wherein the threat lies."

"Why?"

"To put it rather frankly, my Isabella"—I felt my cheeks warm at the endearment, the possessive lilt to his tone—"our skin sparkles."

The air left my lungs in a second. "What?" I half-laughed.

"The substance that our skin is made from reacts in the light. Our skin responds like diamonds in direct light. If we were ever to go out in the sunlight . . . I presume you understand?"

"Yes . . . Uh . . . Can I see it sometime?" I asked, unsure whether there was some kind of etiquette regarding a vampire's skin in the sunlight. Would it be too personal? My senses, feeling a tightening of Alistair's hold on me, then reminded me that only a few things would be considered too personal after us being tangled like a pretzel.

He smiled widely, his lips stretching over his teeth; it seemed that his face would crack from the brilliance of this smile. "Of course!" he laughed. "You seem so worried!"

"I was unsure," I told him.

His garnet eyes turned smouldering. "You should never be afraid to speak your mind around me, Isabella. I've been alone too long; I've spent too much time with only the thoughts in my head, to be able to bear somebody keeping their thoughts from me. Speak your mind, Isabella, I beg of you."

I was stunned at his fervour, finding my hands moving to cup his face in my hands. I leaned forward, and pressed a kiss between his brows, the satin-like skin cold beneath my warm lips. I breathed in his scent, the early the musk of apples that was entirely him. I looked down at him, leaving hardly any space between us.

"I promise."

* * *

As soon as the first rays of daylight shone through the panes of glass on either ends of my room, Alistair murmured his farewell, with promise of returning in the evening. He said mumbled something about 'hunting', which I caught onto immediately. With all the strength and confidence I could muster, I advised him to not hunt in the immediate area, going as far as Seattle if he could. He nodded, and placed a tender kiss on the palm of my hand, and left, his backpack by my rocking chair vanishing with him.

I lay in bed for a little while, staring at ceiling, yearning for a man I had just met. How was this even possible? The rational part of my brain told me that this was happening too fast too soon, and I knew hardly anything about whom he really was. However, the other part of myself, the unabashed hedonist, told me to revel in this newfound pleasure, to give myself to him no matter what the consequences were, purely because it felt good when I was with him. Even the slightest brush of our skin set me alight, slowly but surely turning me crazy, I joked to myself.

"What's got you so keyed up?" Charlie asked when I eventually made my way downstairs to make breakfast.

My face fell immediately. "Umm . . . nothing at all, Dad." Memories of him kissing my forehead last night when he thought I was sleeping instantly made me feel awful for lying to him—though, telling him the truth was completely out of the question too. What was I supposed to say?

_Hey Dad! Guess what? There was a strange and beautiful man in my room last night that was doing all kinds of stuff to your teenage daughter in her bed? Don't worry though; he's hinting that he's going to drain her blood, so it'll all be all right?_

He frowned at me. "Sure," he said, though his tone was doubtful. "Oh!" he gasped. "I just remembered . . . I forgot to tell you last night, I'm going to be gone until Tuesday. Waylon Forge owns a place by the river, so we're all going to be staying there. I've been working non-stop and the guys at the station insisted that I take a few days off to cool down. Is that okay with you, Bells?"

I blinked once, processing what I'd just heard. "Yeah . . . I mean that's fine with me, Dad. You have a great time with the guys. Have you packed a bag, or d'you want me to?"

He shook his head. "No, I did all that stuff last night—I can look after myself, Bells."

I smiled, walked over to where he stood by the oven, and gave him a hug. "Have fun," I said into his shoulder. Slowly, I felt Charlie return the hug, holding me tightly against him. I let go after a few seconds, both of us misty eyed.

He gave a careful look. "Are you _really _okay, Bella?" he said quietly.

I nodded. "Yeah . . . I'm a lot better." For the first time in so long, my small reassurance felt truthful.

There was a magic about Charlie's smile, it made him look at least ten years younger than he was, and as free as a bird. "That's good, Bells. Real good. I take it you listened to our talk last week then . . . ?"

"Yes," I said. "The last thing I want is to be sent back to live with Mom in Phoenix. It's horrible there, now that I think about it."

Charlie looked uncomfortable at the mention of Renée (there was nothing new about this), and he settled down in his chair at the table, as I poured him some coffee, made him a few cheese sandwiches to take with him on his trip, and settled a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him for breakfast. I mixed some strawberry jam with yogurt, and made a show about eating in front of Charlie; he had ever so lightly hinted that I had lost a lot weight in these past few months. The truth was, I didn't even know whether I was hungry or not, just eating because it was expected of me; if I let my hunger guide me, who knows what would happen to me?

By eleven o'clock, Charlie was out of the house, and already on the way down our street towards the main road. I stood on the sidewalk waiting for his car to turn off the road, and if I'd not insisted in seeing him off, I would not have saw that instead of taking a left and heading down to Waylon's place by the river, he took a right and headed in the general direction of La Push. He had talked of meeting all the guys by the river, and I struggled to think why he suddenly decided to go to La Push.

_Maybe he's taking Billy,_ I told myself, and then, jumped at the thunderous roar from above. _Thunder. Lightning. Rain. Lots of rain. Alistair. Go inside, you idiot._

I'd barely made it through the door before there was another ripple of thunder. It seems that there will be a storm after all. Forks did get a lot of rainfall, but it was on few occasions where the heaven's would send down all they had to offer for this forgotten piece of the world.

I looked around the house, and saw that it was in dire need of a dusting and bleaching down, so that's exactly how I spent the better part of that afternoon. I threw out some stuff in the fridge, and came across a tin without a label in the back of a drawer which I left there; there was no way I was going to open that, it could be anything! I changed the bed linens, and without invading Charlie's privacy, I cleaned up his room a little, along with my own. I even got out a little toothbrush and cleaned the barely-there specks of mould that had started to grow in-between the bathroom tiles.

As soon as seven o'clock hit, when everything was sparkling, and another round of thunder and lightning had begun outside, I had finally finished. I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, waiting for the microwave to stop its rounds and present me with a cooked lasagne square. A minute later, I settled down in front of Charlie's most prised possession, the forty-two inch plasma screen television, with a DVD of _The Shawshank Redemption_ playing. It was one of my favourite films, and for a long time I had no understanding why it was on the list, just that it was exceptionally important that it be. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

When I was nearing the end, just as Red had had left Shawshank prison, there was a small clearing of a dry throat from behind me.

I jumped about two feet in the air, my arms, instinctively, moving to shield my face from an attack, however unlikely one may be. The succession between my movement of defence, and the one that had me relaxing into the cold embrace, was inexplicably swift.

_It's just Alistair._

* * *

Alistair

* * *

It seemed that I had become prey to an experience that had confounded me for many a century. What had begun as simple fascination with this brown haired woman-child had morphed, over the single dipping of the moon over the horizon, to something that went against every self-preservation instinct that I had. Other than the fact that she had waltz around her home in sinful attire, I tried to think what else had drawn me to her. Was it the soft whisper of her words? Was it the gentle look in her eyes? Alternatively, was it perhaps that she had accepted me with open arms, without so much of a glance at my face?

I took in another sweet chug of the whore's blood.

I wondered whether Isabella would mind that I had so carelessly taken a life, but then mentally shook my head at the notion. She had openly accepted the fact I was going to drink from a human; she'd not even batted an eyelid, though her heart had raced. I decided then, right as I swallowed the nectar, that Isabella's acceptance of this wild nomad that I was would be the greatest influence of this affection that was blooming in my chest. I failed to give credit to the beast within who had already staked his claim the moment he'd seen a sliver of her creamy skin, he'd already declared, in the chorus of growls that left his chest that very second, that she, at all cost, _must _be his. The beast had no place in deciding whether I could come to _love_ Isabella—love did not exist in his vocabulary.

I felt the blood of this woman running out.

I wondered what Isabella would be doing right now. I had little understanding about what the teenagers of today did with themselves during the day—the night, however, was an entirely different matter. The mere children would engorge themselves with the cheapest intoxicant they could buy, and engage in acts that would have been shaming to even a prostitute of my time. It was the easiest thing to pick them from the streets under the pretence of a little dark-alley fun. Although, over the years, I was beginning to feed less often and only reserved the quelling of my thirst to the scum of the street. Like always, I stuck to the dense forest, the tops of trees, and the shadows of the city, where either no one dared to venture, or in the case of the city, humans were too interested in the idiotic dealings of their lives to spare a thought to the untamed man they'd just caught a glimpse of.

The blood ran dry, and the woman fell from my arms, cold.

I looked down at her, her wide bright blue eyes held a look of terror, and her clothes were skimpy, stockings torn, and a bloodless gaping wound in the side of her neck. Casting a quick look over my shoulder, to check whether there was anybody around (there wasn't), I lifted her up, and with the pad of my thumb I disfigured the scar a little to not give away that she'd been bitten. After I was satisfied with my efforts, I lay her body in the dumpster, and departed.

She would not be missed.

I ran, longing for the feel of supple, creamy flesh in my hands, and dark inquisitive eyes. Last night had almost been my undoing; the utter necessity to have her writhing under me, gasping my name—something I longed to hear from her plump lips—, her tight heat sheathing me, had rendered me no less than a mumbling idiot. I was well aware that to her human ears, she couldn't make out the stutters of my tongue, but they would not have missed supernatural ears.

A vampire could only function so well in a room that was saturated in the sweet musk of a woman's innocent desire.

When I had returned from my shower last night, I had stood outside Isabella's bedroom door, taking in deep breaths of her exquisite scent, but that had not prepared me for when I stepped into her room. I could hear her erratic pulse, practically taste the secretion of her moist heat on my tongue, and it took every ounce of my self control not beg at her feet for a simple taste of her folds, just so the beast within was satiated for a little while. It had been so long since I had shared a bed with a woman, and even longer since I'd been with a human woman. It's not as if I was in perpetual need for a good fucking, quite the opposite in fact. To put it rather plainly, I couldn't stand women. I couldn't deal with their clinginess, their affection, and need to have control—my very hand provided all that I needed from them with a few strokes. Isabella was another matter entirely. Even as I lay there in bed with her, my fingers toying with the edges of her tiny sleep-shorts, our crotches ever so slightly separated by a couple of layers of material, she miles too far away. Before Isabella, I would have been suffocating, claustrophobia begging me to run in the opposing direction without a second thought. But now!

Isabella could never be close enough.

However, she seemed to be hell bent on assuring her, and myself, that she was going to die at my hands. I was pegged as a killer before she'd even set eyes on me, and I'd told her as such. She'd challenged me with a simple whispered, 'Yes', and that had been it, as far as I was concerned. I would have killed her right then, and then set our bodies alight, so we could be together in eternal death. It was her sultry moan, the fresh wave of her virgin desire, which stopped me. I warned her with a simple snarl of her name to not tempt me further because I had not fed for months, and I wanted to enjoy her body without being tempted to suck the life from her veins. I cared not that her father was sleeping a little way away, she would be _mine_ in every sense of the word had she even moved the slightest.

I would have her screaming my name in ecstasy.

I shook these tainted thoughts of Isabella from my head, knowing just how mortified she would be if she ever found out that I was thinking of her thusly. Last night she had confirmed that she thought that she was no better than a common whore, throwing herself at me, and if she hadn't been under the spell of finding her mate, I would have agreed. Living as long as I'd done, and seeing so much of vampire nature, I was no stranger to the power of the mating bond. I'd seen women and men alike, ravaged in the throes of passion, as soon as they came across their other halves. It was Isabella's soul that was responsible for the way she had so brazenly acted when she was around me, and her conscious simply could not understand that. The poor girl was embarrassed.

I reached the outskirts of Isabella's tiny home town of Forks.

My mind was assaulted with memories of last night, the image of my only friend Carlisle Cullen, and wondering why he'd allowed Isabella to live when she knew the secret. I then realised that surely this must not be the first time; how many other people were there that had come dangerously close to finding out about our kind, right on the precise of discovery, for him and his family to abruptly leave, and confirm the human's suspicion? This had exactly happened to Isabella, and she'd not need to have said the words, because her expression confirmed it. How had the intelligent Carlisle that I'd known for so long overlook this crucial detail?

I reached the back garden to Isabella's home.

Inside there was the slow, wet, thump of her heart breath, and her shallow breathing. It seemed that her father had not returned from wherever it is he'd gone. I silently made my way into her home, through the door that led out into the garden, and found her in the cosy living room, every drop of her concentration on the television that showed an old man of colour stepping through the metal fence of what looked like a jail, and shaking hands with the guards there. I could have stood there in the doorway for hours, it would do me no harm because I would be comfortable standing, sitting, or balancing on my forefinger, but I cleared my throat in an inherently human way to command her attention.

Her reaction struck fear into my dead heart.

* * *

**A/N: So . . . What do you think? I'll admit, despite his preference for whore-blood and loathing of women, I quite like him in all his sexually frustrated glory.**

**I'd also like to give a huge shout out to jlove34 and her story **_**Revolutionizing Bella**_**. I'm already in love with the story and the way she writes. Here's a summary:**

_**Set during/after Ch. 12 Eclipse. Newborns are terrorizing Seattle. The vampires of the Olympic Peninsula are worried that the Volturi will become involved, so they call their closest friends and allies. But when the Denali clan shun Carlisle's request due to Laurent's death, an old friend unexpectedly answers his plea. Will his presence shake up their rock solid foundation? Bella/Garrett**_

**Check it out!**

**Let me know what you think and leave any questions you have. I'll do my best to answer the questions without giving too much away.**

**XxX**


	7. Ache

**A/N: Hey, folks! Sorry this took longer than usual (once again). It's just that I'm back for my final year of college before going to university (hopefully) next year. I guess this year, by American standards, is like my senior year. My college timetable is kinda erratic, and I already have a lot of homework.**

**It's going to be hard to keep to the weekly updates, but there's no question of whether I'm going to be continuing with this story. Of course I am! There's just going to be more time between updates.**

**I hope your gigantic support remains unwavering, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

**I don't have a beta, so all errors are my own.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Stephanie Meyer, like always; I just play around with her characters, and own the plot. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Alistair**

_**Monday 25**__**th**__** September 2005**_

* * *

All along, I had been under the impression that my Isabella had not been touched by the horrors of this world, but this notion was dashed the moment she shielded herself from an attack, and adrenaline spiked her blood immediately. I found myself by her side immediately, trying to comfort her fear, the snarls only _just_ able to keep within. I rocked her gently as her heart slowed to a reasonable pace, my eyes fixated on the television screen that showed the man now packing bags at a grocery store, and then asking permission to go to the lavatory. I found it odd that Isabella would watch something like this, it didn't appear to be the no-edge fluff that teenage girls immersed themselves in; although, I should have known by now that my Isabella hardly filled the mould, fit the stereotype.

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

She looked up at me with her wide, endless, bloodshot brown eyes, and gave a single dip of her head. There was accusation in her expression and I knew how much I deserved it. It was foolish of me to sneak up on her, my fragile human mate. _What if I had given her a heart attack_? What would I have done then? I gave her what I thought would constitute to an apologetic look, and leaned down and placed a careful kiss on her cheek. Her heart accelerated and when I backed away, her irises were a simple brown ring around her pupils.

It seemed that even after such a fright, my Isabella did not forget the place of desire.

My thoughts went back to just how much her action had revealed—it was almost a Freudian slip of the body, rather than the tongue. Isabella had been hurt, this was clear from the way she raised her arms to protect herself from an attack. She would not have done this if there were no need. Women in my day were the most vulnerable creatures, and never to be let out of sight of an authoritative male figure, but . . . I stopped all thought of the past at once before I became too consumed by them; Isabella's protection was of my upmost concern, not the dwelling of events that could not be changed. Countless scenarios of how Isabella was under physical attack came to my mind, each more horrific than the last. I drew up a half-forbidden image of Isabella body in the garden yesterday, her untainted, perfect flesh, showing no sign of marring. But then a sliver of something caught my eye in that pristine image. It was a scar peaking under the waistband of her lacy underwear, like it had been nicked by shears.

It was then I finally took in my Isabella's attire, and my own actions.

She was once again donned in that wicked black silk robe, and with the way I held her close, it had fell away to reveal another set of ivory underwear. Beneath that small sliver of fabric at her waist a thin scar emerged, one that was a little darker than the rest of her skin. My thumb found itself under the lace and pressed over the scar. Isabella gasped, and pushed my hand away and got to her feet in a movement so fast I was astounded that her human body had the grace to perform it so efficiently. She leapt over to the television and turned it off at the back switch just as it was showing the same dark-skinned man who I had identified as Red—an odd name, if I was honest—reading a letter. Unable to bear keeping distance between us without a discomfort growing in my chest, I went to her, holding her supple body in my grasp.

"I can't tell you," she said, her eyes shut. "It's too soon."

I hugged Isabella close to me, and whispered sweet nothings in her ear: how I would make it better, how I would never let anything hurt again, how she could trust me so wholly that I would chose death over revealing her secrets, and I would adore her until there was nothing left of me. I turned a deaf ear to her remark about it being 'too soon' because of how vehemently I disagreed with her. _No, Isabella, it's late. I should have already made love to you a dozen times, and heard my name from your lips as you came undone._ I kissed a trail from her shoulder to her ear as I spoke, and she writhed helplessly.

"I'll make you forget, my dear."

Holding her body impossibly closer I raced upstairs with her, and laid her gently on her bed. Her robe had completely opened after her struggles, and revealed her curvaceous figure and my own eyes darkened seeing that her underwear was damp. I flew over her, and pinned her down, begging her with my eyes to stop me; because if I carried on now, there was no guarantee that she would survive the brutal nature of our mating. I had abstained from intercourse for so long that I knew for a fact that I would have no control of my body once I caught sight of her slick cunt.

"Not yet," she said shakily, and that was all the cause that I needed.

Quite shockingly, she leaned forward and placed a kiss between my brows again, and it screamed reverence. I relaxed and found myself falling to one side, and curling into her side, my arms encircling her waist and my face pressed against her ribs, listening to the wet thud of her heart. Her beating heart. So long as this organ was working at optimum condition then I would have to endure the sensation of my erection pressed painfully against the denim of my jeans. I could not risk losing her like I was just going to. I would have more pleasure with Isabella alive and healthy in my arms than the temporary pleasure I would get in that blissful rapture. I breathed in repeatedly her imperceptible scent, while she ran her fingers through my hair, her blunt fingernails pleasurably scraping at my scalp.

"Did you drink?" she asked nonchalantly.

I hummed a sound of agreement, but otherwise did not elaborate on my hunt. I was not proud of my hunts; even as a human, I disliked being the idea of killing another human being, and this tendency, I assume, was reflected in the fact that I could go a long time without letting the burn in my throat devour my every thought. I had trouble dealing with this notion of compulsory death in the first years of my life, and sought an alternative. This was when I met Carlisle Cullen, the so-called 'vegetarian' vampire. He showed me that there was an alternative to killing humans, but I would have to endure the rancid taste of animal blood as an alternative. I stayed on Carlisle's diet for a couple of years minus his companionship because he was entirely too jubilant and loving for my tastes and I was a savage nomad, a traveller by nature, also Carlisle's stories of sobriety were beginning to wear on me. Till this day, I cannot fathom how his entire coven has survived for so long on animal blood; the change in sustenance had changed me so drastically that I did not feel like myself, and that was enough reason to revert to human blood.

"I missed you," I told Isabella.

Saying that I simply 'missed' her was an injustice to the unbearable ache I had been in. I had stopped several times on my run to the city of Seattle, being reduced to a sobbing mess because I couldn't think around the pain. No, I was most definitely doing an injustice to the utter anguish I had been in. I chose not to divulge this information to her because just a short while ago I had promised to be completely infallible to her, to protect her, and I was not going to destroy that image; she had to believe it, even if I did not myself.

"You were the only thing I thought about," she revealed in return.

I chuckled, and kissed what turned out to be a strategically placed beauty mark on the underside of her breast, and then teasingly pressed my tongue against the dark mark. She gasped and her hands balled into fists in my hair. A fresh wave of the delectable musk of her need permeated the air. I decided then that I must not do _that_ again . . . unless the situation caused for it, of course, but that seemed a long way off. Isabella had to be more durable if we were ever going to have sex, but I knew that this innocent seductress would make that a difficult vow to stick to; no, my very _nature_ would make that vow very difficult to stick to.

"You need to sleep, Isabella," I said to her.

On cue, she yawned. Her plump lips parted into a delectable 'o' and she twisted and turned as she quivered in her futile attempt to suppress the yawn. I laughed a little, and reached down, bringing the covers over her sinful body, but leaving my cold one out of it. With a groan of surrender, she turned on her side, and I wrapped my arms around her from behind, pressing a sole kiss on the nape of her neck. She shivered.

"I always have nightmares . . . ward them off for me tonight."

I nodded and immediately I sensed her body relaxing and her heart rate falling. I hummed a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was a child, something that had stayed with me over the burning change into this life; in times of great distress, this lone tune had the ability to calm me. Looking back onto my human memories was like trying to discern an image through smog, but I saw a small memory of my dark-haired mother with kind, gentle, and somewhat omniscient blue eyes: she'd always been able to read me like a book.

Isabella was asleep.

I sighed, tightening my hold on her, holding her burning body close. I couldn't afford to have the thoughts of my dead family plaguing my thoughts of the now, not when my mate was so close to me, where in a short lapse of anger I could crush her. I really had to stop dwelling on their thoughts; my life now had purpose, meaning, and I needed to forgo the paranoia I had developed over years of running from my demons, whether they were imaginary or physical.

Hours passed as I counted her even breaths.

As the sun rose behind the cloudy skies of this sheltered town, I thought over, at last, of how I would go about today. I had been dreading thought of her departure to educate herself at the local High School. She would be out of my sight for eight hours at that horrid place, and I would have to endure her receiving looks from her hormone-driven male class fellows. I imaged tearing out the heart of a faceless teen that had the nerve lay an unwanted hand on her, something I doubted would happen, though was entirely possible.

"Yes," she whispered.

My eyes concentrated fully on her dark lips that were swollen from her deep slumber and her constant attempts to tear at them throughout the day. Her eyes were shut. I quickly realised that this wonderful creature talked in her sleep! My thoughts raced at the possibility that she would divulge little secrets whilst she slept, unknowingly—the moral voice in my mind quickly shunned this thought. However, it would be most fascinating to learn of the little things that my Isabella mumbled in her sleep, and a feeling of euphoria and lust settled deep in my stomach, wondering whether she was dreaming of me, and if so, what I was doing to her.

She moaned quietly and ground her taut backside against my sheathed cock.

I struggled for a breath, feeling electricity shoot down my stomach, and into my groin. She was going to be the death of me . . . or possibly vice versa if I wasn't careful. There was no denying that I wanted her immortal at my side, my equal in every sense of the word, but I wanted to prolong her human life for a couple more years; whether she agreed with this, I had yet to find out. My barely suppressed inner monster, the _true _vampire, whispered into my head that she would never deny me her immortality, that I should take her without a second thought, and then her life. She would burn for a few days, of course, and I will perish alongside every scream of agony she released, but this was an inevitable part of the transition. If I were not running from the Volturi, I would have taken her there, and requested that the male Witch Twin Alec would render her senseless, so she could wake into immortality without the reminder of what she had suffered to get there. Nonetheless, these were just mere musing of a man that wished he had made wiser choices over the centuries, wished that he had not insulted the Volterran kings on their doorstep.

Isabella's alarm clock emitted a piercing racket, and she gasped into wakefulness.

She grabbed onto the offending object, and I heard a small click that indicated her turning the alarm off from a switch that I could not see. She sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and began a string of unclear mumblings. I wanted to reach out, to comfort my troubled mate, but I was all to intrigues about the fact that she had yet to notice that I was here, despite her waking next to me. It seems that a drowsy Isabella was not a good judge of her surroundings, though this, in the future, had the potential to become a double edged sword: if Isabella had become so used to the presence of a vampire, one could easily slip by her without her knowing. She could die.

"It was just a dream."

* * *

**Bella**

* * *

I wasn't okay.

Things had changed, I, naturally, was at the eye of the storm, and watched it all spin out of control, my world tumbling and falling around me. If I was ever to fix what had happened, it would mean going back, back to that night in Port Angeles, and stopping myself screaming out. Maybe if I had not struggled so much then, I would have died; in pain, yes, but I would not have to endure this sudden rise of agonising hope only to have it possibly torn away. I twisted my fingers around, craving a cigarette, something to keep my hands busy. My cheeks smouldered in anger, and I wanted to scream at Fate and Destiny for choosing me so unkindly; why was I not able to live an average teenager's life? Why did I have to be dragged into the world of the supernatural? Why me?

I _craved_ Alistair.

"Are you okay?"

I gave a single bob of my head, and then retreated into myself. I was safe here, in my own world, where I did not allow a single person admittance. Here, in my own mind, the only one who could hurt me was _me_ . . . Although, I often failed to account for the damage my own mind could inflict in this asylum. The voices of Memory and the world buzzed in my head, registering as dull drone—this was the only silence I had ever known.

I drifted to thoughts of my absentee mother who I had yet to hear from in months; I was glad, of course, because this meant that she had either forgotten she had conceived me—her dream—or that the damage that _they_ had inflicted on me weighed so heavy on her mind that she'd realised what a pathetic bitch she'd been for the past eighteen years of my life—_my _dream. If the latter was correct, I just hoped she had the civility to apologise to me for ruining and giving me life, and then disappear, leaving me alone for the rest of my mother-free existence.

Thoughts of a life sans-Renée pulled me into ideas of a possible life in England, studying a subject that I loved, drinking in old coffee shops, and running fingertips across the backs of ancient texts. I could happily spend my life there, in England, and I hoped that it would live up to my expectations. I had a knack for romanticising my life to the point where it could become angst-filled young-adult fiction, but the image of me walking home in the overcast sky and rain in a small university town, filled me to the brim with joy. After spending my years reading Austen and Brontë, I was susceptible to the lure of England and all its charms.

I felt a hand shaking my shoulders, and I gasped into alertness, my eyes wide open.

"Bella, seriously, tell me what's wrong?" Angela pleaded, wrapping a surprisingly warm hand around my icy one.

My eyes flitted around to the empty benches, registering voices from indoors, the mist-like rain, and Angela's concerned eyes.

Once again, I was bombarded with thoughts of Alistair, my heart aching to be with him. I had left him so unwillingly this morning, and he similarly had given me a hundred reasons to stay at home, in his soothing embrace.

I had woken this morning from the strangest of dreams, where I was sending Alistair away, but he'd fight for me, worship my body in the throes of sex, and the cycle would begin again. In all my life, never had I dreamed of such raw lust, and it had taken me by surprise when I'd woken to the shrill sound of my alarm clock, and a completely normal morning. Well, that was until I had felt his fingers ghosting against the exposed small of my back, heard his alluring voice call me back to bed for a little while longer, and acknowledged the damp cloth against my aching folds.

"_Please, Isabella? Don't leave me. Ten more minutes, sweetheart."_

I placed my head in Angela's lap, letting her play with my hair. Craving simple platonic human contact, I had developed a peaceful, affectionate, relationship with Angela. I was sure that the majority of the student body thought we were gay, but I didn't care; if I was ever going to experiment in that field, Angela had already signed up to be my first subject, and I'd offered to do the same.

"There's a guy," I told her, "but sometimes I think I made him up. He's perfect."

"Oh, really?" she half-laughed.

"Yeah, his name's Alistair."

"Interesting name," she said with an air of approval. "Alistair. I like it. Tell me more."

I hesitated, my mind hitting a momentary blank before I said a discord of things about him. "He's beautiful and tall. A couple of years older than us I think. Newcomer to Forks, but I don't think he's staying long. He's English. . ."

She gasped in glee, her hand halting in my hair. "No way," she breathed.

"_Way_," I drawled, laughing.

"Maybe you _have_ made him up," she joked, feeling around my bangs, and pulling away a segment of hair from the rest, and starting a thin braid.

"I swear, he's like something out of a dream."

We were quiet for a little while, but then she softly broke the silence. "What're you going to do when he leaves Forks?"

"I'll go too," I answered, not needing to think about it.

She set the unfinished braid aside, and gave me an unreadable look. "You don't know him," she said shakily. "He could hurt you . . . I don't want him to hurt you, Bells."

I sat up, holding her limber body close to me. She sniffled a little. "He couldn't hurt me even if he tried," I said, conscious of the fact that there was a huge possibility that Alistair was listening in on this conversation from somewhere in the forest around this end of the cafeteria. "He doesn't have it in him to hurt me, Ange . . . You know I had enough credits _last year_ to graduate early, and there's only you and Charlie that're keeping me here now. I should get news from Cambridge within a week or so, and then, I _have_ to go, regardless of whether Alistair comes or not."

"You said that you were staying until graduation," she mumbled.

"I also said that if I get onto the program, then I'll be gone as soon as possible."

"Oh . . . I'm going to really miss you, Bella."

"Me too, Ange, me too."

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked that! ****Let me know what you think and leave any questions you have. I'll do my best to answer the questions without giving too much away.**

**XxX**


End file.
